


Highly Illogical, Most Likely Improbable

by okaywhateverokayyes



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Carrots, F/M, Hei Briskeby, Minor season 4 spoilers, Misunderstandings, Not Established, Russbuss, SKAM, Yousef's POV, season 4, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 01:40:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11138670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okaywhateverokayyes/pseuds/okaywhateverokayyes
Summary: “Yousef?”He turned from the sink, “Yeah.” It was resigned.“When you’re ready to talk, please remember that I’m here for you.” That was all.(Yousef’s POV)





	Highly Illogical, Most Likely Improbable

**Author's Note:**

> Introducing Mama ACAR! I hope you enjoy this as much as I have enjoyed writing this!  
> P.S: Yousef’s POV (Post 4.08: Clip 5; 06.07.17)

He slid on his snapback, pulling the sleeves of his jacket through his hands-his left hand first, then his right. Yousef grabbed his comb from off of the dresser, avoiding the mirror as he disentangled the short strands of hair that fell on either side of his face.

His laptop’s screen had animated once more, a message alert appearing on the bottom screen. He slid the cursor and pressed onto the box.

 _Mutta:_ _Yo. Dude. See you in 20._

They had-well, the other four had decided that they had enough for another video. They were more than willing to find livestreams when possible to watch the series. Cavaliers vs Warriors. At that moment, it seemed like a good portion of the people he knew were invested in a game that had no effect on their lives. Or for their country.

Which, were the point of sports, in essence. Global domination.

Yousef swiped his thumb across his phone, clicking on the message box as a red swirl hovered over it.

 _Adam: 30-bring a jacket, it’s cold! Opp Med Hum_ _Øret_ _❤_

Yousef pulled out his backpack from his closet, unzipping it as he slid his hands in. He fisted his flask in his hand, pulling it out before settling his bag beside the rear of his bed.

He peeked out from his room, looked in both directions. His ears were heightened in their senses as he honed in on any specific sounds. He’d settled for no one being home as he strode into the kitchen.

Yousef ran the sink water as he emptied the contents in his flask, grabbing the hatch of the fridge door with his free hand. He leaned further towards the fridge as he grabbed a slice of lemon. He kicked the door shut with the heel of his foot, nudging the tap shut with his elbow.

He knelt as he grabbed the kettle from the dishwasher, wiping it with an unkempt cloth wrapped around the stove railing.

He flipped the tap water with his thumb, watching as the water surfaced up and even further to the top lid. As it reached the brink, he turned off the faucet before he emptied the kettle a quarter way out.

Yousef flicked the stove on, settled the kettle on the burner as he kicked the stool from underneath the island with his foot. He nudged it in his direction as he went to take a seat.

He grabbed the handle of the knife from the counter block, easily slicing the lemon into thin wedges. He would cut half of it before reaching for the saran wrap, grabbing hold of the clingy plastic wrap to the size that seemed apt to cover the entirety of the lemon chunk before slipping it against the sharp creases that cut the film from the roll.

Yousef haphazardly wrapped those two together, reaching for the fridge’s hatch before shoving it beside the carton of milk. His mother would most likely recognize it there than if he had put it somewhere behind the pickled olives.

He slipped back on top of the stool, leaning backwards as he rested against the island frame.

His pocket reverberated through the fabric of his jeans, which caught his attention. He stared at the front door from where he sat as he pulled out his cell, swiping his thumb across the screen.

 _Mutta: I ripped my jacket, give me a spare_.

He had his thumbs ghostly hovering over the screen.

It wasn’t as if he would refuse to let Mutta wear one of his jackets. They did in fact wear somewhat similar sizes, Mutta finding more comfort in the slight enormity of it. It wasn’t as if it was the first time either.

Yousef chuckled quietly to himself when he knew exactly which one he had a predisposition. It was a Levi’s trucker jacket-a faded denim color that had buttons that served no purpose either than being there. If anything, it was futile for the weather more than it was actually serving a purpose.

Yet, Mutta never seemed to be disdained by it. It’s as if he had forgotten his level of sheer discomfort because of how it just _fit_ him. This past winter, he had told Yousef that the snow had nothing on him and as Yousef watched Mutta roll down the frosty hill with nothing other than gloves, a hat, his jeans, a white fleece with that trucker jacket that was _unbuttoned_ \- nothing seemed to dissuade him from rolling down the hill once more with his toothy grin. 

 _Yousef_ : _Trucker is in the laundry, man._ _☹_

 _(…_ )

_Mutta: </3_

_Yousef: Sorry, buddy_ -

_(…)_

_Mutta: Ikke bekymre deg. Don’t worry about it. Neste gang, rett._

_(…)_

Yousef gazed at the kettle, a faint whistle emanating from within.

He glanced at his lap as his phone buzzed-

 

_Mutta: How was work?_

Yousef scrounged up his eyes as he focused on the baby emoji. He had the urge to tell Mutta that they were _toddlers_ , but he resisted the temptation.

_Yousef: Eh_

_(…)_

He had taken a quick nap after had had come back. Today, it was about learning how to write a letter within the lines and it’s only when he had to help a couple of them did he realize that maybe this wasn’t an easy task as he had imagined. Their tiny nimble hands slipped all over the page, the writing ending up more on the floor of the room rather than the paper.

It was-

 _Charming_ , to say the least.

He laughed a couple of minutes in, accepting that the amount of crayon wax that he would need to spend cleaning with a surface wipe as they took their second nap of the day. Fortunately, for him, it wasn’t as much of an endeavor rather than it was a redundant task.

Yousef wondered how they had managed to get crayon pieces stuck into a crevice on a bookshelf that had been three times their height. He wanted to say it might have had something to do with teamwork but he settled on sheer luck, as anyone could flick a wax piece in the air and have it coincidentally land _somewhere_.

He doesn’t question it as he collected the pieces of Crayola.

The group chat goes off-

_Adam: CAVS JERSEY on and ready_

_Mikael:_ _uh 3-0_

_Elias: Don’t listen to him. CAVS, Hele Veien!_

_Mikael: being real bro. ^^^_

_Adam: I’m being real bro!  :/ :/ :/_

_Mutta: The force is strong with the Warriors, my dear Spock._

Yousef rolled his eyes.

_Yousef: That’s the wrong universe, Mutta  :P_

_Mutta: huh?_

_Mikael: Star TREK has SPOCK_!

“Going out?”

Yousef jolted slightly in his seat as he glanced up, his eyes falling upon him mom. Pulling out a chair, his mother sat down across from him and fanned herself a few times with some newspaper that had been sitting on the table, something with _Aftenposten_ written on top. 

“You’re not cold?” He asked instead, as he sat back on his stool and rolled a marble around an empty salad bowl.

She stopped fanning herself, glancing at him with the very intent of trying to understand where he was coming from. “I think I’m coming down with something.” She resumed ruffling the paper in her face, sliding her hand on the island for extra leverage as she leaned back in her chair.

“Oh.” He searched her face, saw the darkish hued bags under her brown eyes. She looked pale in comparison to her normal complexion, but other than that, she wore a mellow smile as she looked back at him.

“I’m fine.” She asserted.

“You sure?” He asked, reaching over to press the back of his hand against her forehead. There was no stark heat that emanated from her, so he pressed his index and middle finger against her wrist-quietly jotting down her pulse rate in his mind before pulling away.

She ran her hand over the woven fabric of his hat. “ _You_ look sick, not me.”

“I do not.” He chortled as he slowly withdrew his hand.

His mom gave him a look before setting the newspaper in front of her. “Come here.” She insisted.

He held his hands out in front of him, “I’m _fine_.”

His mother shook her head, as she folded her hands over her papers. “Alltid så sta. _Always_ so stubborn.” Her voice is void of any frustration as she fixed the vase beside her.

“Me? Stubborn,” he snorted,  “I work with kids, ma.”

“ _So_?” She pressed, “I raised both you and your brother, I know stubborn. Your father and now _both_ of you, _Insha’allah_.”

Yousef stood up and walked over to the stove, fisting some lemon wedges in his hand before dropping them into the flask that he set beside the sink.

He knew stubborn. If stubbornness had a face, it would have been Sana. The way her dimples would deepen, as her brows creased inwards. She wore a resolute demeanor that spoke in volumes as she wrapped both her hands somewhat defensively across her rib cage. Stubborn was in the way she would refuse to even acknowledge the person she held disdain for. Stubborn was the way she would ask rhetorical questions and everyone had to be aware of the fact that answering her would only validate her frustrations.

It was the way her pupils were vacant and what he saw was how she felt. Emptied and maybe he could conflate it with being free but not seeing the familiar hue in her eyes felt _wrong_.

Yousef drew a sharp breath as he blinked away his thoughts, instead gripping onto the hydro flask between his palms, his skin turning a ghostly white from the sheer pressure.

“Yousef?”

He turned from the sink, “Yeah.” It was resigned.

“When you’re ready to talk, please remember that I’m here for you.” That was all.

Yousef rubbed his forehead. Never got tired, feeling like an asshole. He lifted the kettle from above the burner, swiping the switch off. He poured the steaming water from the spout into his flask, half way before settling the kettle back onto the burner. He clasped the lid on the flask before he walked over to the table and kissed his mother’s head. “I’ll be back, Ma.” She didn’t say anything, but he felt her eyes on his back all the way to the door.

He stepped outside, sliding his hood over his head as the breeze swept across his face and clamped onto his flesh as frosty prickles. When Yousef was outside, he stood against the railing of the steps and made himself take a few deep breaths.

The warmth from the flask seeped through the container, dispersing out and absorbed by his skin, warmth prickling the palms of his hand soon afterwards.

It had been _days_ now and the only thing that had put Yousef in contact with Sana was these videos that they would shoot. Even then, he had a hard time stomaching the thought of having to be in the same room with her. He had a thousand and one questions and his prerogative to ask them shot to shit everytime she walked into a room.

He had to clamp his mouth shut just hearing her name, intrepid that his words would fall out of his mouth with such alacrity, she would probably think he’s more than an asshole than she had already decided him to be.

She had to-

He was-

Unfriended.

He walked into a room and she sulked as if his very presence had sucked the air out of the room. Even then, she hadn’t even acknowledged his presence.

 _Days_ was something he wasn’t underestimating.

 He checked his iphone as he took large strides down the street and turned the corner to come to a stop at an intersection. Their group convo would buzz off every eight seconds or so, Mutta still confused by the very concept of what the difference was between Star Trek and Star Wars, Mikael insisting on clarifying.

Halfway up the street, his phone rang. Yousef swiped his thumb across the screen as he pressed it against his ear. “Hey.”

“Mikael is with me and we’ll meet you at your place and walk to Mutta’s.” Elias declared, a faint voice heard behind him, more of a loud snort. Could only be Mikael as he most likely continued to insist on making his point.

“No video?”

Elias clicked his tongue in verbatim, “Nah. Just changing places.”

Yousef slowed down his pacing, kicking his feet at the ground. “I’m already on my way.”

There was a shuffle on the other end. “Oh.” Another static buzz. “Uh, yeah-the girls came by a couple of minutes ago. They are doing their own russbuss planning and yeah it looks like they don’t want us here,” sarcasm so dry, it seeped through the cell, “ _So,_ we have all the space at Mutta’s to you know, just _chill_.”

Yousef breathed out, uncurling his fingers from around the flask.

“Unless you want to see Noora before we go to Mutta’s?” Elias drifted off.

Yousef frowned, consciously aware of the fact that Elias would not be able to see. He picked up his pace as he strolled across the street, flailing his palm out in front of him as a car approached his direction and stopped a short distance short.

“ _Noora_?” Confusion was etched into every syllable, “Why?”

Elias scoffed. “Uh, you know why.” As if it was the most obvious answer. And maybe his perception was overestimated because at that moment, he felt as befuddled as the next person. If that next person had been Bart Simpson.

“ _No_. Not really.” He huffed out.

There was a part of him that had been convinced that Elias wasn’t going to be able to maintain the silence, that it was going to be interrupted by a callous snort or a offhandish grunt.

“ _Right._ So like you trying to keep this between you two _still_ or do you want to try to you know? Maybe keep _us_ in the loop, sometime soon.” Yousef was surprised at the flat harshness of Elias’ remark.

His feet came to a sharp halt.

“ _What_.”

Elias was dismissive as he muttered, “It’s whatever, Yousef. It’s your life. It’s _cool_ ,” the sheer sternness of it implied otherwise. “Meet us at Birkelunden, and share your spot so we can find you when get there.” That was it. A click followed soon afterwards.

Yousef gripped his cell tighter, his knuckles cracking from the sheer force. He shifted his weight to his other leg as he extended his right leg outwards, digging the sole of his shoe into the cement pavement until his toes ached.

He dropped the hood from over his head, letting the harsh wind swipe against his face. It does nothing to soften the blazing heat that swarmed up to his cheeks, a smoldering warmth so blistering, he had to look around him to make sure it was even as cold as he had remembered.

The gust of air felt like the spines of knives pressing into every open crevice of his flesh, caving into his lower epidermis and twisting in on its own, in a repetitive and cruel manner.

“ _What_.” He repeated to himself, shrinking as the implications dawned upon him like he finally had caught sight of a fast-paced truck sweeping in his direction.

Noora and him?

Noora _and_ him?

There was _no_ Noora and him.

“ _Oh sh-“_

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
